DonŒt Look In The Freezer

Don’t Look In The Freezer
December 14, 2004

I know I shouldn’t pay any attention to the medulla macabre-longata part of my brain, but I do, far too often. That’s the part of the brain that dwells on morbid death scenes or imagines awful, tragic things happening to one’s loved ones.

As each of my three kids went through their toddler years, I would live in constant fear: partly because of normal dangers that most parents of toddlers are concerned about—sharp corners on furniture, open stairwells, eating rat poison—and partly because of this area of my brain that always imagines the worst things happening, for no apparent reason and completely without provocation.

I could be sitting at my computer, or reading the paper, and it would suddenly occur to me: I haven't heard any noise in the last few minutes! Surely a serial killer has sneaked into my home and brutally murdered my entire family, and right this second is slicing their lifeless carcasses into manageable chunks for convenient disposal!

Of course, the reasonable part of my brain (the medulla rationalongata) is rolling its eyes and calmly (i.e. rationally) saying, “Just stop it. You’re not being reasonable.”

I wish I could say that I usually respond to the voice of reason and realize how ridiculous such thoughts are. But no, instead I get up from my desk and go investigate or holler, “What are you guys doing? Why are you so quiet?” And, of course, everyone is just fine, just deeply absorbed in their respective quiet activities.

Usually, and especially when I come from work late at night when the whole family is already in bed, my mind goes through the standard regimen of what if your whole family has been tragically murdered and all their bodies are in a heap in the upstairs shower? And instead of saying shut up that's ridiculous I go through the routine of checking on the wife, checking on each kid, making sure they're all warm, listening for their breathing. And always the result is the same: Excellent! No one is dead.

Strangely enough, this particular night, the irrational voice of the medulla macabre-longata was unusually quiet. I walked through the front door, hung up my coat and my keys. I then walked to my office and dropped off my bag and papers, and proceeded to the refrigerator to see if there was anything to snack on.

As I stood there, looking into the refrigerator, I noticed several strands of long hair—my wife’s hair—hanging down from the freezer door above. That's when the medulla macabre-longata took its queue. “Laura’s severed head is obviously in the freezer. Better brace yourself.”

The rational part of my brain tried to explain, “Laura probably was leaning into the refrigerator when her hair caught on one of the screws in the upper door jamb of the refrigerator opening. It only appears like the hair is hanging down from inside the freezer.”

But I think the rational part soon realized it was at a disadvantage and was not even being acknowledged. So it simply said, “OK, well maybe you’ll want to close your eyes when you open that freezer?”

Good idea!

As I opened the freezer with my eyes closed, there was a sudden shifting of its contents. Something heavy tumbled forward and stopped against the partially opened door! Heart pounding, eyes clenched tight, I opened the door farther and the heavy object cleared the door and hit the floor at my feet with a dull thud.

Did I dare open my eyes? Would I see the blank dead stare of my wife’s frozen head looking up at me? I couldn't risk the horror. So I knelt down, eyes still closed, hands reaching to feel what was now on the floor at my feet.

I groped around and finally found the cold, heavy object. I picked it up in both hands; felt its shape, its mass, its frozen solidity.

That's when the medulla rationalongata said, “How about that? The killer obviously cut off your wife’s head and decided to beat her skull into the shape of an ice cream container! Clearly, a rather talented serial killer, don'tcha think? Seems to be good with his hands, ya know? Make sure you tell this stuff to the police when they arrive.”

OK, I get it. Enough already.

Ever since, it hasn't been the same, because I’ll never live this down. Ever since that night, whenever I come home late and everyone is in bed, the rational part of my brain beats the medulla macabre-longata to the punch, but only to ridicule me:

“You might want to check the freezer before you do anything. You never know if your wife’s severed head might be in there, beaten perfectly into the shape of an ice cream container. Hurry up. Come on. Let’s go check.”

OK, I get it. You're a real crack-up. Shut up already.